


How did it end up like this??

by TeaTinBlix



Category: Deltarune (Video Game), Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Consent, Enemies to Enemies, F/M, I won't judge, RIP me, Violence, Who wants to bang the King???, ain't no lovers here, completely and totally a guilty pleasure fic my dudes, it started out as a joke and now it's this thing, not dubious in the least, reader is a total badass and beats the king up on a regular basis, reader is an independent woman who dont need no jackass abusive king, yOU do u nasty shit, you read that right lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 10:39:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16638365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaTinBlix/pseuds/TeaTinBlix
Summary: You woke up in this strange world with no memory and therefore no loyalty to one 'side' or the other. All you knew, after some time gathering your bearings and discovering you were the wielder of a pretty damn cool giant war hammer that seemed to manifest at your beck and call like magic, was that this kingdom was ruled by a tyrant. An asshole who liked to lie and manipulate and abuse those below him in order to stay in power.And that pissed you off.A rivalry was struck, and it's safe to say he was stunned and enraged when you weren't so easily defeated. Just the opposite in fact, the two of you seem to be on the exact same level, matching blow for blow, every battle ending in a frustrating draw that left the both of you beaten and exhausted.Your ire and hatred for each other only grew with time. But so did something else.Something you really weren't proud of and did your best to lock away and ignore.





	1. It was only a kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Ayyyy welcome to the shit show, I'm your host, Thirsty Dan.
> 
> This 100% began as a joke just to see my pal's reaction, and then it uh. Got out of hand.
> 
> As a note tho, this weird little story is in NO way shape or form supposed to come across as romantic, or as a redemption arc of any kind for the King. He's a dick, he's horrible, and he deserves to get his ass beat.  
> But, uh. Also.
> 
> Him big.
> 
> Also also, first 'chapter' is super duper little because THAT was the original little joke-fic I wrote to bother my pals. The second chapter is the juicy bits lmao. Lord.

The two of you stand, panting and exhausted, each of you wrung to the very end of your rope.

Craters from your--The Vigilante’s--hammer dot the floor and walls. Numerous spades, sharp as knives, litter the room as well, stabbed deep into every surface.

The King is bruised and beaten, and you bleed from a small handful of nicks on your arms, and one on your cheek.

You’ve done this song and dance before. A few times. Multiple times. Numerous times.

No matter what the other did, the two of you always seemed to be evenly matched. Where he was all brute force and strength, you were speed and agility. Your strengths and weaknesses met in the middle, like an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. 

You, the Human, the _Lightner_ stand, back pressed to the marble wall of his otherwise abandoned throne room. And he, the King, stands a few scant inches away from you. One of his massive arms leans against the wall above you, his hand clenched into a tight fist. 

He has the knife-like point of his Spade-Whip to your throat, and you have the spear-like pommel at the end of your hammer against his chest, over just where his Soul would be.

“...It seems,” he begins, his voice like thunder in your ears. “...We are at an impasse, yet again.”

“Looks like,” you bite back.

Neither of you move for a moment.

And it’s unclear who moves first.

He dips down, ignoring the sting of the pommel, and you tip up, ignoring the bite of the spade, and you meet in the middle in a starving, hungry kiss with an intensity that easily matches your battle.

The King is the first to let his weapon drop from your neck. He knows you don’t have it in you to _kill_ him, even with the advantage he just handed you. And he grins against your lips when you growl, and you know that he’s _mocking_ you for your pacifism and mercy.

But, you don’t draw away or do anything to stop him, and so he doesn’t.

His hand, now free after letting go of the Spade-Whip, curls around your hip, large enough to almost completely wrap around your middle with just his one hand. Slowly, he lifts you from the floor, sliding you up the wall.

When he _dares_ to slip his tongue into your mouth, you finally drop your own weapon. When you grasp at the cloak at his neck as if for dear life, he pauses to relish the feeling, realizing that perhaps he has _never_ felt a triumph this strongly before.

Now holding you a good foot and a half up the wall, his hips arc, pinning you to the marble and you gasp into the rough kiss. It’s a sound he wants to hear again, and he grins even wider, so wide that it’s difficult to keep the kiss going with all of his teeth as bared as they now are.

He’s quick to give that up, tilting his head, one large hand curling around the back of your neck, tipping your head to the side for him so he can drag that blue tongue across the exposed skin there.

You all but writhe in his hold, flushed and panting, clinging to him like you’re worried he might up and vanish.

The Spade-Whip shifts up and curls around one of your legs like a snake, and the rounded, blunt side of the spade presses between your legs, rubbing against your inner thighs. It only has to ease up, just a tiny bit more, and it slides against your core.

You moan again. Now you’re the one to buck your hips, and when he laughs against your throat it makes your entire body thrum with the vibration. 

He’s already readying himself to pull you from the wall and carry you to his throne. He’d be lying through his massive fangs if he said he’d never wanted to have his way with you there. And with the way your knees press together and your hands dig at his shoulders to keep him close, you’d damn well _beg_ him to, if he didn’t hurry it up.

He lifts his mouth from your throat, a line of deep, purple marks along your sensitive skin from both his teeth and tongue, his hand tightening around your hip--

“FATHER!” 

Lancer all but bursts into the throne room, his bike’s engine roaring. 

You slam a boot into the King’s gut, and it’s a powerful enough hit to make him gasp and stumble back, releasing you completely and catching his balance. His Spade-Whip zips back into the open maw in his belly, and he has to fight down the urge to _scream_ at his son for his interruption. 

“I wanted to--Oh!” Lancer pauses, completely oblivious to the moment he’d just destroyed. He grins cheerfully, and waves a hand at the Lightner. “It’s Miss War Hammer! My favorite Hammer Toting SuperHeroine!”

You’re still trying to catch your breath, but you’ve always got the energy to give the boy a smile at least, and you even wave at him a little. You reach down and grab your massive warhammer from the floor, praying that you didn’t look as flushed and disheveled as you _felt_.

“What,” the King begins, his voice low and dangerous enough to catch Lancer’s full attention again. “...Do you _want_. Son.”

“...Uh…” Lancer pauses, frowning in thought. “...Hold on, let me think for a second, I just forgot.”

The King grits his teeth so hard that he’s surprised he doesn’t crack one.

“...Oh! Lesser Dad found a _REALLY_ cool worm! It’s all blue and has these little glowy pink spots all over it! Do you wanna come see?”

The King lifts a hand, dragging it over his face. “...No,” he finally growls.

“What?” Lancer’s shoulders sag. “How come?”

“The Lightner and I are busy.”

“Miss War Hammer? But she left.”

“What--” The King whips around, and sure enough, You’re nowhere to be seen. Frustration bubbles up even stronger in his chest, and his fists clench, snarling under his breath.

“Yeah she climbed right out the window. She’s so cool.”

For a moment the King can only _GLARE_ at the spot he’d _almost_ had his prize. He’d been so damn close, so _fucking_ close… but after a moment, his furious scowl melts into a smirk.

You’d come back.

You _always_ came back.


	2. It waS ONLY A KISS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :3c

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, sitting back and chilling in a beach chair, sipping on a mimosa in the 6 foot deep grave i've dug myself: one day i'm gonna have to pay for all my mistakes and transgressions against humanity, but today is not that day.

It was frustrating, because it seemed for a while that he might be _wrong_.

You _didn’t_ come back. At least, not for a few days.

And for someone who has very much grown used to the infuriating human smashing through his windows or dropping down from the ceiling while holding onto a chandelier at a near daily, consistent pace, the silence in the castle has begun to grow… irritating. 

The throne room had been repaired from your last fight, and he sits in his throne, fingertips drumming the marble armrests, glaring at the empty room with growing frustration gnawing at his gut.

To think that you, a _Lightner_ , would worm your way into his mind so easily.

Not that his growing...attraction? has ever had him go easy or pull any punches. And obviously whatever attraction you felt for _him_ didn’t slow or weaken your own determination to bring him down.

He rests his chin in his hand, elbow on the armrest. His scowl morphs into a toothy smirk.

...You’d tasted sweet. Akin to strawberries.

You had tasted sweet and you had responded to his every touch like you were _starving_.

His fingertips drum against the throne again, and it feels as if static electricity suddenly begins to build up in his veins. His instincts buzz, and that smirk morphs into a very wide, very pleased grin.

He pushes himself from his throne at just the right moment, barely dodging a heavy blow that would have done _quite_ a bit of damage if it had struck his head like it was supposed to. The massive hammer instead cracks into the throne, breaking a good chunk of stone off the top of it.

The King _laughs_ , turning to face you where you’d snuck up on him from behind.

You couldn’t have chosen a more opportune time to arrive.

That fire--that bright electricity--in your Soul has him, for once, wishing the fight that was about to commence was already done and over with, so he could continue with you where he had last left off.

“I didn’t know you were the sort to play dirty, little Lightner,” he rumbles, voice deep and dark as his bloodline.

You grip the warhammer tighter, gritting your teeth and glaring at him. “I knew you’d get out of the way. I just want you to know that I’m not _playing_ with you,” you snap.

Very slowly, he drags his long blue tongue across the fronts of his upper teeth, like he’s suddenly anticipating a meal. He doesn’t miss it when your eyes drop and watch the movement of his tongue, and he grips his Spade-Whip in both hands, the leather of his gloves creaking. Both of his mouths grin, and he feels _hungry_.

“Little Lightner, fighting you is _always_ play.”

He attacks first, a flurry of razor sharp spades blinking to existence and slicing through the air towards you. 

You twist and lift your hammer, dodging some of the spades and deflecting the others with your weapon. Light on your feet as always, you kick off from the marble tile as if that ridiculous hammer doesn’t weigh at least twice your own bodyweight. 

The King blocks your attack with a large spade he summons up in front of one arm like a shield, taking the brunt and grinning in satisfaction as he watches the force of the impact crack his magic like it’s nothing but thin ice.

He’d always been attracted to power.

He pushes against you, swinging his arm and sending you rocketing backwards.

You land on your feet, slamming the hammer down in front of you where it drags across the ground as you slide backwards, slowing you down until you’re still again.

The moment you stop sliding, more of his spades are waiting, trying to cut through you from all directions at once.

You spin your hammer like it’s light as a stick, whirling it around yourself in a flurry as you begin to march towards him. Your pace increases with each step until you’re sprinting at him, dodging and casting aside every spade bullet.

He stands ready, watching your every move. Once you’re close enough, he twists, arm twitching and he _throws_ the Spade-Whip. The sharp point manages to dart through your defenses just quickly enough to curl around your ankle, and he _yanks_.

The King hears the air leave your lungs in a rush, slamming onto your back first before he pulls harder on the whip and flings you across the room.

You roll in midair, and when you strike the wall you do so with your boots rather than your back, the marble cracking under the impact. You seems to crouch against the wall for a moment, as if defying gravity itself, tilting your head up to glare at him.

The fire in your eyes could be hot enough to boil the very air around you, if you had the magic in your system to allow for it.

He drags his tongue across his teeth again, anticipation flaring in his gut.

You launch from the wall, hefting your hammer again, poised to strike.

The King summons up another spade shield to block, but there’s enough power behind this strike to crack the shield completely. The hammer falls through his broken magic and hits home, and he roars as he’s struck like a golf ball across the room.

His impact against the wall is a lot more violent than your own, slamming into the marble and causing several chunks of cracked stone to fall around him, dust kicking up and drifting from the ceiling. 

He lets out a deep huff, pushing himself from the new indent in the wall behind him.

The dust clears, and you stand in the same spot you’d struck him from. The _grin_ on your face is triumphant and almost spiteful enough to send a thrill of pride through him. He only snorts though, as if just barely amused, grip tightening on the Spade-Whip as he summons another flurry of bullets.

As always, neither of you go easy. Neither of you pull punches. Neither of you _hold back_. 

Blood is drawn--several of those darts clip your arms, and one clips your shoulder. One hammerstrike lands strongly enough to make the King spit red through clenched teeth and a curse.

Throughout the battle, he makes a point to throw several of his spade darts into the hinges and lock of the heavy double doors of the room, essentially jamming them and preventing entry (or exit) inside. Nobody was coming inside this time, and unless you wanted to jump out the window again, nobody was leaving either.

Not that you seemed to mind. After noticing what he’d done to block the doors, he could have sworn he caught the smallest flash of a smirk cross those lips of yours.

Lips that had tasted like strawberries before, and he was eager and impatient to find if they still tasted the same.

“How much longer do you plan on letting this little game go, Lightner?” the King barks, watching you leap deftly out of the way from at least a dozen darts.

“I told you,” you snap back, and your chest is heaving, breath heavy as you narrow your eyes. “I’m not _playing_.”

His mouth quirks into a smirk, baring his teeth.

“There is no _game_ ,” you growl. “And you--!”

Your eyes widen as he darts forward. He could be deceptively quick on his feet as well when he puts the effort forth.

His footfalls are heavy and fast, the floor rumbling as he charges you. More spade darts pop into the air beside him and shoot at you, forcing you to begin to move backwards and split your attention away from just him to prevent getting skewered.

With the combination of his massive form moving closer and the cascade of new bullets to deflect, you don’t notice the approaching wall until your back jarrs against it.

You only have time to wince before he closes up the space between you completely.

He _slams_ his forearm against you, and you block with the long hilt of your warhammer. But his strength trumps yours, and he pushes you hard against the wall, both his arm and the hammer’s hilt pressing into your chest, stealing your breath away with the force behind him.

“ **Y I E L D !** ”

His voice is _thunder_ , pure bass that you can feel down to your bones as he leans down and snarls beside your ear. It was a shock to you, really, and it shows on your face for a moment, lips parting slightly, your brows shooting up.

He’d never pushed you to surrender before. Your fights had always begun with the goal to either win...or lose. If he lost, it would mean you’d beaten him into submission and he’d give up. The other Kings would be released, his reign would end, and he would be imprisoned. But if _you_ were to lose, the both of you were well aware it would mean your death. He _hated_ Lightners. You knew that. He’d never planned on giving you a cell, rather than a grave.

So it was a _shock_. 

He could kill you right now if he wanted. He finally got his advantage--he could put an end to your constant stalemates. 

But instead he pushes you against the wall _just_ hard enough to make breathing difficult, but not hard enough to crush you. He never touches you otherwise, aside from his forearm pushing against your ribs. The hilt of your warhammer was going to leave a terrible bruise, you were sure.

Your arms tremble, gritting your teeth, doing your best to push back against the hammer. His breath is hot across your throat, and you feel yourself flush at the feeling, your lips parting again as you pant, struggling to breathe.

He pushes harder against you and you jerk, gasp cut short. 

He’s hunched over, looming like some horrible storm, and his voice drops to a much lower growl.

“Yield.”

You grit your teeth hard enough to make your jaw ache. You aren’t stronger than he is, and he’s got you literally pinned. You wrack your brain, despite your vision beginning to grow fuzzy from the lack of oxygen. How were you gonna get out of this one?

It’s a desperate, last-shot attempt, but you kick out and hook a boot behind one of his knees. With a burst of strength from your waning adrenaline, you pull.

He grunts, leg giving out and forcing him to drop heavily to that same knee before you. It surprises him enough to ease up from pinning you for _just_ a second long enough to let you twist free. 

You slip to the side and his arm and the rest of his body fall forwards, slamming into the wall heavily. 

The King snarls, baring his teeth and shifting to turn on you, but he stops, freezing when he feels a sharp point of something--no doubt the bladed pommel of your warhammer--jab threateningly at the side of his throat. 

You’re panting, catching your breath, and are nearly at his eyelevel with him now kneeling. You glower up at him, baring your teeth. “ _You_ yield!” you hiss.

Tables turned, the King is silent, head only tilting slightly to indicate he’s looking at you at all from that dark void beneath his hood.

For a long, long moment there’s no sound but your quick breath, and his own heavy, albeit slower breathing.

Honestly, neither of you expect it when he moves.

“Very well,” is all he says, and ignores the sharp bite of the pommel as he turns and lifts a hand. In one smooth motion he knocks it aside, grabs the front of your tunic, and pulls you in. His mouth crushes to yours in a searing kiss, and pride shoots through him like a drug when he _feels_ your legs wobble.

Your hammer drops to the ground, clattering loudly where it lands, forgotten.

You don’t do a thing to stop him or pull away when he curls one massive arm around your middle, holding you tight to his chest, and he’s glad for it. He’s been damn well waiting for this moment for days, the hunger a constant discomfort in his lower belly. 

His fangs probe at your lips, urging them to part. You moan, and he presses into your mouth, long tongue sliding against your own, and those fiery eyes of yours slip closed. 

He stands, still holding you to him, never daring to break that contact, drunk on the taste of strawberries. His footfalls are heavier than they usually are, crossing the destroyed throne room, making a beeline for his throne.

 _Finally_ , is what he thinks.

The King lets himself sink down into his throne, and he’d never admit it but his sore, bruised muscles relax instantly in relief. 

One of his hands wrap almost completely around one of your thighs, tugging at you so you straddle him, leaning down to keep with you in the kiss. His tongue thrusts almost lazily in and out of your mouth like a teasing glimpse of what’s to come.

The King’s other hand rubs down your back, feeling the curve of your spine, and his thick fingers cup your ass completely, curling beneath you and slipping under your tunic.

You break the kiss to gasp, leaning back, a line of blue-tinged saliva linking you for just a moment before it breaks. He grins, his tongue hanging from his mouth, and begins to rub his fingers against your core.

You moan, and the sound is as sweet as you taste, like music to his ears. You shiver and twitch, your hands gripping his shoulders so hard he can feel your nails biting through his cloak.

“See how well your King treats you?” he rumbles, grinning down at you while your hips rock against his hand. He can feel himself thickening and growing stiff just beneath your lap, and it takes a great effort not to rut into you right this moment.

“Y-you aren’t my King,” you hiss through a strangled, pleasured gasp.

He smirks, pausing his ministrations just long enough so you hiss in frustration, and he chuckles.

“But I could be.”

Before you can reply, there’s a loud bang from the throne room’s doors. The spade bullets hold it in place, but they shake slightly when whoever was on the other side strikes the door again.

“Your majesty!” a muffled voice calls--one of the many guards of the castle. “We’ll get the door open soon! Are you alright?”

The King gnashes his teeth, and his frustration now is a dozen times worse than it was when his first close encounter like this with you had been interrupted. He was _not_ going to lose this chance. Not again.

“LEAVE ME,” he barks loudly, voice furious. “LEAVE THE DOORS.”

“What did he say?” a different muffled voice asks.

“He said to...heave the doors? Down? Break the doors down? Is that what he meant?”

“So his Majesty wants us to break the doors down.”

Despite everything, you can’t help but snort, looking over your shoulder towards the jammed double doors. Still, you move, attempting to pull yourself back from him, but his grip tightens around your waist.

“Oh, no,” he snarls. Once again he stands. One hand remains curled beneath you, and you let out a shaky breath when he begins to rub against you again. “Not again, Lightner.”

He crosses the room towards a hidden panel camouflaged away in the checkerboard tile of the wall. With his free hand, he presses one of the square tiles, and the panel slides open, revealing a dark hall. He ducks inside without a word, and when the panel slips closed the two of you are left in darkness.

The King marches through the hall, and in the quiet it’s easy for him to hear when you actually _whimper_.

And for a moment he has no idea if it’s because of what he’s still doing to you, or if it’s because you’re afraid of him.

The latter idea is almost immediately brushed aside, and he snorts as he continues to walk. His Lightner wasn’t afraid of him. You weren’t afraid of anything.

Realization of his own thoughts hits him nearly as hard as a blow from your hammer, and he stumbles a step, faltering.

… _His_ Lightner?

He dares to glance down at you. You’re leaning heavily against his chest and belly, your legs hooked around him as best as you can manage. He’s still holding you up with one large hand and his spade-whip looped around your middle, curling his fingers against you in a slow pulsing rhythm. You have your forehead pressed to his chest, your fingers digging hard into the thick fabric of his shirt.

...That has a nice ring to it.

His steps become sure again, and he leaves the throne room far behind. The hall melts into a spiral staircase leading upwards, and he carries you with ease. You weigh next to nothing to him, after all. And at the top of the staircase he pushes open the heavy door waiting for him.

It swings open--another hidden panel, this time in the wall of his personal chambers. 

The sudden dim red glow of light from the room has you tipping your head up from his chest to peer around, and he sees you’ve been biting your lip to silence yourself so hard it looks as if you might draw blood. 

The King lets the heavy hidden door swing shut behind him without a second glance and crosses the room towards the massive circular bed at its center. Another flex of his magic and the locks of the main door slide into place with a satisfactory metal-on-metal click.

He reaches the edge of his bed, lifting a knee and pressing it to the firm mattress. His body hunches low, and he lets your back hit the bed beneath him, releasing you.

Only when you glare up at him does he pause, both of his hands pressed into the bed on either side of you, all but caging you under him.

Slowly, he cocks his head to one side, watching your face carefully. He doesn’t move otherwise.

You look at him warily, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you work to get your breath under control. “...What are you doing?” you finally ask, breaking the silence. 

He rumbles, the sound seeming to come from the mouth on his belly, and you feel the spade-whip brush against your outer thigh.

“Waiting for you to decide,” he growls.

“To--?” you flush darker, and he _knows_ you’re well aware of what he means. “To decide what?”

He smirks, and the spade-whip curls around your thigh completely, squeezing just hard enough to make you shiver. “If you want me as much as I want you.”

You swallow thickly, and his black gaze drops to your throat, remembering what it was like to feel your pulse under his tongue. 

“And if I don’t?” you challenge.

He lets out a frustrated grunt, frowning. “If you _don’t_ ,” he snaps, “Then I get up. You get out of my castle. And the next time you dare show your face here again we try to kill each other.” He heaves a sigh and waves a hand dismissively through the air. “As per the norm.”

“...Uh huh,” you say, and when your eyes drop to his mouth he knows that won’t be the case.

You push herself up with one of your arms, reaching up and grabbing a handful of his black cloak. You tug, and he leans down, and this time the kiss is _heavy_. 

His hips rock into the bed below you, grinding against one of your legs, and he slides his tongue against yours, curling it through your mouth and exploring you in earnest now that he was sure the two of you were no longer on the verge of running out of time.

Your body jerks in surprise when one of his hands grips your hip, his thick fingers pushing at your shirt. He breaks the kiss long enough to tilt back, looking down. His other hand joins, and you gasp sharply when he rips your tunic in half up your body.

“You--!” you sputter, already flushed face darkening even more. “You impatient jackass--”

The King presses his mouth to yours again, cutting off your insults and smirking against you. His thumbs roll against your breasts over your bra, your body squirming under his while you still grip his cloak near his shoulders. Your other hand digs into the blankets under you, and you end up dragging them with you when he decides to slide you further up his bed, climbing onto it with you completely.

He breaks the kiss, one of his hands leaving your chest to cup your chin and jaw, forcing you to tip your head so he can nip at your throat. The sting of his teeth makes you hiss, and he soothes his tongue over the same spot a moment later.

“Remove your clothes,” he instructs against your neck. “Or I rip them off.”

“Oh my fucking god,” you snarl through a breathy pant, and he feels you kick and wriggle under him while trying to get your boots and pants off yourself. “What about _your_ clothes?!”

“I’ll remove what I need to,” he says with a grunt.

“Oh no, if I have to take off everything, so do you--”

“I know what I want,” he interrupts, and he moves so his mouth is just beside your ear. He feels you shiver, and carefully plays with the shell of your ear with his teeth. “And I want all of you.”

“Wh--”

“What do _you_ want, my Lightner?” 

His question seems to baffle you, and he chuckles lowly, letting his thumb push your bra up over your breasts entirely, exposing you to the cool air of his room. “Tell me what you want.”

You stammer over your words, voice cracking, face the reddest it’s been yet. As if suddenly it’s difficult to speak, and you look away from him, biting at your lower lip.

If the word was anywhere in his vocabulary to begin with, he might have thought to call you _cute_.

As it was, he only snorts and dips into your throat again. This time when he closes his teeth carefully into your shoulder, you cry out, bucking your hips and tugging harder on his cloak, as if he weren’t close enough already. 

“Then I only remove what I need to.”

His hand at your jaw leaves, trailing down your body, flattening against the entirety of your outer thigh, now bare and dotted with goosebumps. His thumb plays with the band of your underwear impatiently, letting it snap against your skin a few times, a silent warning that these needed to be off much quicker.

“Hold on, let me--”

“Too long,” he grunts. He only needs to pull once, and the underwear is gone, now just a ripped piece of cloth. He tosses it aside, ignoring another bout of sputtering insults, and slips his hand between your legs.

Instantly, your voice dies in your throat, your head tipping back as your spine bows away from the mattress.

“You’re _soaked_ , Lightner,” he says, and there’s a rumble to his voice that makes you think of a pleased purr. 

You hear his mattress creak, having closed your eyes tightly during the mix of shock and pleasure, and when you focus on him again he’s hunkered back on his knees, no longer looming over you.

The massive Darkner shifts back, reaching down and gripping your hips with both hands. His fingers circle around your thighs, and you hold your breath when he spreads your legs wide. When his tongue lolls out of his mouth you look away, cursing under your breath and struggling with the heat rushing to your face.

The King leans down, lifting your lower body slightly to meet him, and drags his tongue across your entrance.

Your breath catches in a strangled cry, both hands gripping the blankets beneath you.

On instinct your hips buck, but you’re forced to still as his spade-whip curls around your middle and holds you tightly, forcing you to keep steady while he puts that long blue tongue to use.

You’re already wound tight as a coil, and it doesn’t take you long to feel as if you’re about to teeter over the edge, panting and shivering and biting back every little sound that tries to leave your throat.

He didn’t like that--and it shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does that you taste sweet _everywhere_ \--but he wanted to see you come undone, and he wanted to be the one to do it. 

Setting you back down on the mattress so he can use one of his hands, he rubs the pad of his thumb over your clit as his tongue works, and your legs hook around his shoulders, your breath still gasping and frustratingly quiet otherwise.

Slowly, feeling your muscles trembling, the quickness of your breath telling him you were almost _there_ , he lets his thick tongue slide into you, curling against your inner walls while his thumb continued to rub over you.

You snap like a rubber band, your thighs pressing against the sides of his head, one hand digging into the blankets while the other claws desperately for purchase at his crown.

If you were anyone else he might be inclined to cut your hand off, but as it was his grin only grows, feeling you ride out your first orgasm, his thumb continuing to rub in slow circles to make it last.

It frustrates him that you didn’t make a sound. 

He removes his tongue from you slowly, dragging it back into his mouth before he takes his thumb away from your clit. Your muscles twitch now and then, and he reaches up, taking your fragile, thin wrist in one massive hand and carefully removing it from his crown so he can sit up.

Your chest heaves, and he gives you a moment to yourself to catch your breath, reaching down and undoing the sturdy buckle below his belly and finally releasing himself from the pressure and discomfort his clothing was causing him. He growls, the sound guttural and relieved, and rests his length against your stomach.

It was then that he realizes an error in his logic.

Both of you seem to realize it at the same time, actually.

His eyes move from his cock--long, bulbous, and thicker than your upper arm--to _you_ , somehow smaller than he initially realized. This wasn’t going to w--

“That is _not_ gonna work,” you say, mirroring his thoughts.

He snorts, pausing for a moment before reaching down, taking one of your knees in his hand. “It doesn’t have to,” he grunts. “Press your knees together,” he commands, but he’s already grabbing your other leg as well. He holds your knees together with one massive hand, and holds himself above you with his other on the mattress beside you.

The King notices you shift your arm up and grip his wrist near your shoulder, and for a moment he wonders if you’re _nervous_. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he growls, and pushes his length between your thighs, now pressed tightly together. “Not here,” he adds on, voice roughening into gravel as a wave of pleasure at the feel of you jolts through him.

“Yeah,” you huff, and grip his wrist tighter, your other hand digging into the blankets. “There’s the catch.”

He snorts again, rocking his hips back and thrusting forwards, rubbing his entire length against your still-sensitive clit. You squirm at the stimulation, a moan leaving you as he adopts a steady rhythm that has you bouncing with each thrust.

Once he has a pace set, he curls his spade-whip around your legs now, freeing his hand from holding your knees together. His grin is all sharp teeth, and even though you can’t very well see what he’s about to do you brace yourself when you see that smirk alone.

He reaches down, and you shiver when his fingers rub against your slit, his hips still rocking and rubbing your clit with every thrust. Slowly, he pushes the tip of one thick finger into you, and he laughs when your back bows off the bed, the tip of your tongue showing from between your teeth. He leans down, claiming your lips roughly, bringing your tongue into his mouth as he pushes his finger into you completely.

He thrusts his finger out of you, and slides it easily back in, gauging your reaction by how sharply you gasp against his mouth and how tightly you grip his wrist.

The King slowly begins to match the pace of his hips with the pace of his hand, and as he does you becomes so much more vocal, gasping and mewling and crying out into the rough kiss as he bombards your nerves and senses mercilessly.

You’re so much better than anything he could have hoped for, sweet as strawberries and fiery enough to burn him if he got close enough. He wanted you like he wanted this Kingdom, he wanted you as if you weren’t a traitorous Lightner, he wanted you to be _his_. 

His thoughts become electric and cloudy, lust and desire and a boiling pressure building in his gut causing his already quick pace to hasten, growing erratic and more forceful as he fucks your thighs. He breaks the starving kiss so he can tilt back to watch you, your breasts bouncing with every heavy thrust, your red lips parted as you moan and whimper and babble.

His hand near your shoulder moves, and he grabs your wrist, his palm swallowing up your hand as well in the process, pinning it to the bed and holding on tightly, feeling the white hot coil in his belly tighten even more.

You come just before him, and you _scream_ as you do, your free hand that isn’t pinned to the bed curling around the back of his neck. 

It’s your reaction that sets him off, and a gutteral, booming roar leaves both of his mouths when he comes, spilling sticky heat onto your bare belly and breasts.

He rocks against you a few more times after he's done, choppy and rough.

His body trembles every few seconds, his breathing heavier than it’s ever been during one of your battles. The King looks down at you beneath him, his rival and enemy, thoroughly spent and looking satiated enough to stroke his ego for the next lifetime.

Maybe it’s the afterglow lust still clouding his mind, but the words fall out of the toothy maw at his belly without his say-so.

“Be my Queen,” he rumbles.

It startles the both of you, your heavy breath sputtering.

“Wh-- _what_?”

But he’s not one to back down, and he realizes… _is_ that what he wants? As he mulls the thought over, the very _concept_ , he feels himself grin. He leans down, slowly letting his spade-whip uncurl from your legs, letting you relax. His face nuzzles almost gently at the crook of your neck and jaw, a laugh making his chest vibrate.

“You would make a marvelous Queen.”

You hiss, turning your head to look away from him, but he just follows after you lazily, pressing a kiss that _might_ have been considered chaste in any other situation against the shell of your ear. “I don’t want to be your _anything_ ,” you bite.

He laughs again, the sound like distant thunder. “Too late.”

“I’m a Lightner,” you tack on.

He hums, and loosens his grip on your hand he still has pinned down. Slowly, he brushes his thumb over the delicate inside of your wrist. 

“A Lightner who knows nothing of the fountains.”

You hesitate at that, frowning. When you’d first woken up, memory gone, several different entities had filled you in and gave you their own crash courses on this place’s history, but...you really didn’t know much of anything. You didn’t fight him to get to the fountain. You fought him because he was _awful_.

“But a Lightner who still fucking hates your guts,” you hiss between your teeth.

He cocks his head, that smirk never fading, but his voice gaining a curious lilt. “Would it really be so terrible?”

“Uh, _yeah_?” You glare at him. Your voice is still heavy, still catching your breath back. “You’re a fucking tyrant. Your people are _afraid_ of you.”

“A King who rules with fear,” he growls, “is a King who rules forever.”

“No, it’s a King who gets usurped,” you retort.

“Then join me, and maybe that will change.”

You looks as stunned as he feels at the offer, your jaw dropping. For a moment, he wonders if he’s being honest. To have _you_ at his side, _would_ he try to change? Most of him very much doubts it. If there was a job that needed to be done, he would do anything in order to _get_ it done, and if that job needed cruelty and violence, he would use both as needed. The fountain was too precious to risk.

“...I’m not going to fall for that,” you say finally.

He doesn’t blame you.

The King leans back a bit more, pushing up from the bed and leaving the space just above you. He takes a moment to look you over, expression unreadable.

You’re a mess, and the sight stirs up something primal in him again, some snarling beast that demands he say whatever he needs to say to get you to be _his_ , whether it be true or not.

He notes, one by one, the little cuts lining your arms from your earlier battle in his throne room. The blood is dried and smeared across your skin, and it looks as if a bit of it has gotten onto his bed. There’s a long, harsh line of a bruise across your ribs at a sharp angle where he’d pressed the hilt of your warhammer hard enough against you to have nearly cracked your ribs.

...Maybe it’s the afterglow and his still-muddied head, but he doesn’t… _like_ this. 

With an absent grunt, he touches a thumb to your chest, right between your breasts. When you ask him what he’s doing in a low, frustrated hiss, he ignores you.

He’s never been adept at healing magic. He’s never bothered to study it in depth. But he pushes a strong enough spell into your system to get rid of that bruise and close those cuts.

You hesitate, looking shocked, but the expression vanishes as quick as it appeared. You’re still staring at him warily, and he realizes you probably no doubt think he did that just to try to sway you.

Maybe that was true.

With a low growl he moves, and finally draws away from you completely, leaving you alone on his bed. He turns, shuffling quietly to get himself in order, fastening the buckle at his hips.

When he turns to look at you, you’re wiping your chest and belly off with his blankets, and he’s silent as you gather up your pants and boots from his floor, pulling them on. You march across the room, and he stares when you throw open one of his wardrobes.

“...What are you doing,” he grunts.

“You tore open my fucking shirt,” you bite. 

His eyes drop to the tunic, ripped clean in half. Ah. Right.

You grab something black and pull it on over your head. It’s absolutely massive on you, looking more like a dress, but you’re able to synch it at your hips and keep it from tripping you up.

“It’s not just how you rule, either,” you say quietly, and his dark gaze jumps from your new ‘outfit’ to your face. It’s an expression he’s never seen on you, and he doesn’t even know where to begin on what to call it. “It’s how you treat Lancer.”

He stiffens at the mention of his son, baring his teeth. “How I treat my son is _no_ concern of yours,”

“He _adores_ you!” you say, and turn to face him completely. “The _one_ person in this whole place who sees _something_ redeemable in you, and you--”

He storms closer to you, reaching out and pressing a hand to the wardrobe behind you, crowding you until you have your back to it. “How I treat my son,” he repeats slowly. “Is no concern of yours.”

The King watches your nose crinkle in what could only be disgust. You duck around him, heading back towards the hidden panel on the wall you had come through. It’s still slightly cracked open, and you wriggle your fingertips into it before pulling it open, revealing the dark spiral staircase. 

He decides to try another tactic, one more, and it’s possibly the lowest he can go.

“If you were the Queen of this kingdom,” he rumbles, and he smirks when you start to head for the stairs. So stubborn. “You would have an equal say in how Lancer is treated.”

 _That_ freezes you in place. 

He’s quick to try to take advantage, moving towards you again where you are, standing still at the top of the stairs.

He reaches out, hooking a hand around your waist, tugging you back to him.

“If you were Queen, half of this kingdom would be yours. Its people would cherish you. Lancer would cherish you.” He grins, watching you. You don’t move an inch. He ducks down further, his voice low in your ear. “ _I_ would cherish you.”

That hand at your middle lifts, sliding up your body slowly, his sharp-toothed grin widening. “I would cherish you each and every night--”

You whirl around, shoving at him roughly, causing him to grunt and stumble back a step, letting you go.

There’s cold fury in your eyes, and he feels a sudden mix of dread and rage. Whatever chance he’d had at claiming you, he’d lost it.

“Using your own son against me,” you murmur, and you sound as disgusted as you look. You turn, moving a little quicker now, and head for the stairs. “Like I said,” you say to him without looking back. “I don’t want to be your _anything_.”

You disappear down the curve of the stairs, no doubt to retrieve your warhammer and make your escape, and the panel door once again slowly slides closed.

The King stands there, stone still and silent for a long time.

When he finally moves he throws a fist against the wardrobe, reducing it to splinters of wood with a loud crash. He bares his teeth, seething where he stands. 

You’d been a writhing, moaning puddle of nerves beneath him, perfect in nearly every way, and had been his, his, _his_. He’d offered you the world on a silver platter. And you were gone, left without so much as a second glance.

His chest heaves, jaw tightening. This couldn’t be it. 

His attention shifts to your torn clothing still on his floor, and oddly enough he finds himself calmed somewhat at the sight of it. 

...You would be back.

You _always_ came back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, still chilling in my grave, sipping on my 4th mimosa by the time you get down here: live long and prosper, you funky little goblins.


End file.
